A Banksy Christmas

A Tattoo: A Tale

Since getting my new tattoo (the picture will have to wait, since I seem to have the stupidest computer in the world) one week ago today, certain friends (Shari!) have requested I tell the tale behind it all. Some have also requested that I relay my mother's reaction (Paul!); however, I am still holding out the hope that if I play my cards right she may never find out at all.

Nevertheless, the tale deserves to be told. So, my dear Readers, gather around the campfire, build your s'mores in wee sticky fistfulls, and prepare to be entranced by not one but three tales; for the tale of my tattoo is a tale within a tale within a tale....

The Scar
First, I will take you back in time to the year 1994, the year of my first major car accident. We--that is, my former husband, my son, and I--were living in Hollister at the time. Hollister, as you may already know, is a little town way the hell away from everyplace else. This meant I spent a lot of time bundling up my 2-year-old into his car seat and racing back and forth along Highway 25 in my little Chevy Sprint. Honestly, I was up and down that road so many times I came to believe that I would meet myself coming or going along that route. Who knows? Maybe that's exactly what happened.

Here is what happened: On one of these many trips, I happened to look in my rearview mirror to check on my son, as I often did, and I discovered he had fallen asleep with a McDonald's milkshake in his hands. If that falls, that's going to make a really big mess, I thought to myself, little knowing how devastatingly ironic those words were about to turn. So I did what they tell you in driver's training courses never to do (here is the cautionary part of the tale): I reached into the back seat to obtain said milkshake. In the process, I drove off the road, then overcorrected back onto the road, and flipped my car. It flipped and flipped and flipped. I lost count. Eventually, it ended up on the driver's side, skidding down the highway.

Funny thing, car accidents. I mean, it really is like they say: time slows down or your brain speeds up or maybe both. Your mind has time to think of all sorts of things. So there I was, sliding sideways down the highway, and I was thinking about a story my dad had told me about when he was in a car accident when he was young, thrown from the driver's seat (pre-seatbelt days) and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling himself back in. So, I'm thinking to myself, in the thoughts that I think, Okay. Are all my arms and legs inside the car? And it was then I noticed that my shoulder was dragging along the highway right outside my window. There wasn't any pain--shock or adrenaline was preventing that--only a kind of hyper-awareness which made me go, Hmm. That's not good. Better move that. And I did.

The rest, as they say, is history. Once I slid to a stop, some kind motorists helped me and my son out of the wreckage and waited with me until the ambulance came.

My son, safe in his car seat, didn't have a scratch.

I received twenty-two stitches in my left shoulder.

I was washing glass and strawberry milkshake out of my hair for three days.

My car was totaled beyond repair.

My scar is a physical reminder of this. It reminds me that this was a single car accident on a dangerous two-lane highway: The accident could very easily have involved one or more other vehicles. If it had, especially if it had been one of those big rigs that are often out there on 25, I may not have survived at all.

My scar also reminds me that when my husband learned of the accident, he only asked after his son. He asked nothing of me. His response, I'm told, was something to the effect of "Only my son matters." Yeah. Nice guy, my ex.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do enjoy dramatic gestures, especially if they are loaded with symbolic or poetic meaning. Since that time I have fancied the notion that, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on that shoulder, and it would have to form some kind of circle to encircle that scar. I liked the idea of separating that space from the rest of my body, both isolating my brush with death and warding against future disasters. But for a long time, that's all it remained: an idea. Until....

The Ouroborus
For many years I've joked that I could never get a tattoo simply because I could never make up my mind what design to choose. I toyed briefly with the idea of a mermaid, because I love mermaids, but it just didn't feel right. There are other less specific designs I've seen on other people that I thought were really lovely--trailing ivy, tribal patterns, etc.--but those didn't carry the symbolic weight I was looking for either.

One day I was watching an episode of Red Dwarf (yes, I'm a fan) and the storyline centered on playing with the word "ouroborus." The word tugged at my memory. When I looked it up online, I discovered that this symbol--the serpent swallowing its tail--has been floating around in books and media I've been reading and watching for years. It's been on the X-Files and The Neverending Story and in numerous myths and legends.

One of my favorite stories involves a young man who is captured by a witch and made her servant. In the way of such tales, he is forbidden to eat the food hidden under a covered dish. One day while he is cleaning, he can't resist the urge to peek under the lid. He finds a baked serpent with its tail in its mouth. He decides to take a little pinch off of the tail. When he eats it, he discovers he can now understand the language of birds and overhears them talking of the witch's plans to kill him. He is then able to make his escape and earn his fortune with his new-found abilities.

The Ouroborus, depending on which story you read, can be a symbol for immortality, wisdom, and energy renewed, among other things. And it's a circle.

The Ormurin Langi
Now those of you who know me well are probably wondering why I didn't go for something a little more commonly recognizable, say, from The Lord of the Rings. Certainly, the ring is a circle. And the words that formed on the ring are often rendered in a circle. And certainly I am a fan of all things Tolkien. But. Think on this. Those words are a curse. Maybe I am superstitious, but I just don't fancy permanently inscribing a curse in the language of a malevolent entity into my skin. Not good karma. Or at least not good feng shui.

Plus, with the popularity of the movies, anything Tolkien has become... well... trendy, for lack of a better word. And I tend to shy away from following trends. What I wanted was something that captured the essence of Tolkien's poetry, that invoked a similar mythic power....

Copenhagen, 2007. Enter the boys from Faroe.

On my last night in Copenhagen, while finishing up an adventure in 2007, the summer I turned 40, I met these boys from the Faroe Islands. I call them boys, but, you know, they were in their early 20's. Anyway, I was coming back from a rather sedate night out with the girls, and there they were, sitting on the stoop outside the hostel. They asked where we were from, and we said America. And I asked where they were from, and they said Faroe. That stopped me in my tracks. I have always held a fascination for those little northern islands, and now here was my chance to learn about them first hand! The girls I was with didn't seem to find this nearly as exciting as I did, so they went on in. Nevermind them; I got to be entertained by half a dozen beautiful, beautiful boys as they told me all about their island home. And in the course of conversation, The Ormurin Langi came up.

The Ormurin Langi is a ballad of some 85+ verses that is sung while dancing in a circle. The ballad was written circa 1830, but it's based on an historical event that is far older. In the year 1000, Norwegian king Olaf Trygvason battled with the Swedish and Danish kings off the island of Svolder. When it became clear that he had lost the battle, he and his remaining men leapt overboard. Their ship was named the Ormurin Langi, the Long Serpent.

Copenhagen, 2:00am. Upon request, the boys from Faroe jumped up and formed a ring and danced and sang (in part) the Ormurin Langi for me. It's one of my best memories.

The Design
I can't tell you when all of this came together. I don't remember if I thought of the ouroborus first and the Ormurin Langi second, or vice versa. It just sort of came together in my head one day, the way such creative notions do.

I didn't like any of the ouroborus designs I found online, so I made up my own. I wanted something that looked like it had been lost at sea for 1000 years. I found a picture of a dragon masthead from a ship from the time of Beowulf, which is about right, give or take a couple hundred years.

The verses I have taken from The Ormurin Langi are from the chorus:

Glymur dansur í høll, dans sláði í ring
Glaðir ríða noregis menn til hildarting

Translation:
Glad sounds of song fill the hall as we dance and sing
Gladly ride the Northern men til Hildar rings (a famous bell)

Sufficiently joyous, I think. No curses here.

The Experience
I wanted to go someplace local, support local artists and all that. I checked online and El Toro Body Shop had the most impressive reviews. When I stepped inside, I felt right at home: The decor was made up of all manner of dragons and masks from around the world. The artist, Marty, did a brilliant job realizing my vision, piecing together my request from little more than my verbal description and the photo of the masthead. He was easy-going and friendly, and very accommodating when it came to scheduling my appointment. We had a great time talking about traveling: He lived in Norway and Holland for awhile and had all kinds of stories to share. I never even noticed the time passing.

I have always heard that getting a tattoo is painful, so I was expecting it to hurt. Nevertheless, I went into it with the devil-may-care attitude of, Hell, I've been through childbirth--I can handle anything! hahaha And you know, it wasn't that bad. I don't think it ever went past a medium level discomfort, if that. In fact, the experience was so pleasant overall that I might even consider doing it again....

And Now....
When I look at my shoulder now, I don't think about a car accident that nearly took my life, or an ex-husband who never truly understood or loved me. Instead, I think about a Norwegian King who would rather jump overboard than surrender. That's very me. Failure is just not an option. I must be the Captain of my ship; I will succeed because I must. And if I do not, then I'm going down with the ship.

But then I have the ouroborus to remind me that there is power in renewal, that there is a coming back from our lowest most destructive levels of existence. If I do fail, I will return and build again. This gives me hope.

And finally, I am reminded of those fair-haired, stormy-eyed boys from Faroe, who on a whim danced and sang for a stranger one Midsummer's night and stole my heart forever.

I've told my son that if he wants a tattoo, he'd better wait until he's 40 so that if he makes a mistake, he'll only have half his life to regret it. ;-)

But I do not regret it. No. Not one little bit.

Dragonflight!

Dragonflight by Michael Whelan

Oh, Tongue, give sound to joy and sing

Of hope and promise on dragonwing!

~Anne McCaffrey

I was dreaming that I was a dragonrider on Pern, flying over the Istan desert. This is odd because I don't believe any of the books were set in Ista (unless there was a short story I'm only barely remembering).

I haven't read any of these books in years. I have always said that of all the books I have read, many of them may have been better written, but the only place I have ever truly wanted to visit, and maybe even stay forever, is Pern.

I was riding a dragon!!! So. Very. Cool.

P.S. There have been a number of different artists assigned to do the cover art for McCaffrey's books over the years, but I still think Michael Whelan's is the best.

The Art of Star Wars

Back when Star Wars was just a twinkle in George's eye, he hired artist Ralph McQuarrie to create the concept art. I own all six of the art books (one for each movie) and paging through them just gives me shivers of awe and wonder, sometimes even more than the movies themselves. Think of it: George has a dream, he tells it to McQuarrie, and McQuarrie brings that dream into being, enough so that a team of technical people can work their magic and bring the movies to life. It's almost like a virus--an imagination virus--which starts with one person and spreads to another and then expands exponentially until it infects the whole world. I am fascinated by this process: That one person can have an idea, a mere spark, that sets off a chain reaction and takes on a life of its own. Star Wars is now part of our cultural consciousness. I would even go so far as to say it's part of our collective unconscious. The images are in our minds; the phrases have become part of our language. How incredible! How thrilling! Three cheers to Ralph McQuarrie for pulling those visions out of the ether and bringing a dream to life!

Happiness Is...

...reading a "guilty pleasure" book as late as I want until it's all done.


[Reading a memoir is like that Steven Wright joke: "I like to reminisce with complete strangers." Goldie Hawn is a great person to reminisce with.]




...taking my son to see an exhibit of exquisitely beautiful, deeply disturbing art at the San Jose Museum of Art.











[This was very provocative. The artist has an interesting message that is worth listening to, but she is perhaps a little too dark and despairing. Yes, there is darkness in this world, but there is light also. One has to see both.]





...having a whole Saturday to just do what I please.

Rivers and Tides

You wouldn't think a film about Watching the Artist at Work would have a whole lot to offer in the way of entertainment, but this film was absolutely fascinating. It never ceases to amaze me what people come up with as a form of expression. Andrew Goldsworthy goes out into these landscapes and just starts making sculptures from stuff he finds lying about: rocks, bracken, leaves, even icicles. His patience is phenomenal--sometimes his project collapses before he can finish. But then he picks himself up and starts again. Usually, he sets himself up against some kind of time limit, like the tide coming in. He considers this a part of his art: Nature is not destroying his art, but contributing to it, engaging with it, and becoming part of the process.

Without ever being deliberate or obviously preachy, there is an underlying philosophy to this film. No matter what work we do, aren't we all engaged in building these tentative structures? Don't we all have to pick up the pieces and start again when things fall apart (as they inevitably do)? Aren't we all working against the tide?

Watch this film. You won't regret it.

Washington Square, I'll meet you there...

Originally, Tori Amos was thinking of titling this song "Washington Square" before she finally settled on "Garlands." Somehow, "Washington Square" resonates more with me because the SJSU campus address is One Washington Square, and it seems that I am always rushing over there as the speaker relates in the song.

"Garlands" is about two lovers meeting at an art exhibit of Chagall lithographs and finding their story in the paintings.

The music has a lovely repetitive refrain that is mesmerizing, meditative, and reflective. The song was only released on the special edition DVD which came with her Beekeeper CD. Sometimes I turn it on, like tonight, and just let it play and play. If I knew how to play piano, I would want to play this song.

I try to keep it toned down for the sake of my friends, but I really am a fanatic for this woman and her music. Her style is feminine, cryptic, nonlinear, and more than a little kooky. She teaches me to trust my feminine, cryptic, nonlinear, kooky side. [grin]

Garlands
~tori amos

“The Winged Painter is on uptown” I said
“Will you meet me to go…”
Washington Square
I’m racing there
to get you at
Noon,
oh the Nocturne noon…
Isabella on the way there stops me
(I say) I can’t stay today -
I’m off in flight Towards Another Light.
Rest.
Youth.
Washington Square,
I meet you there and we go.

now He’s on the run
He’s on the run
From this walking Greeting Card
and Chloe’s Kiss,
The Wolf Pit,
The Wine Harvest,
and Phileda’s Lesson -
We’re not his possession.
in Winter,
Trampled flowers
in Winter

Lovers,
Circus,
these Garlands -
The Blue Pirouette,
The Marriage,
The Mimosas,
Black Sun Over Paris…
these Garlands -
The Little Swallow,
St. Paul from the window,
from the 1/2 open window.

Eve incurs God’s displeasure.
Passion.
Odysseus and Penelope,
Ulysses and Penelope,
The Festival,
In Hell.

in Winter,
The Winged Painter,
The Winged Painter,
Washington Square -
Let’s go see a Day in May
from The Winged Painter

Looks like a prison camp, feels like a prison camp...

But it's a museum!

The De Young Museum in San Francisco, that is. Doesn't look all that exciting from the outside, but inside is pretty amazing. The view from the tower-- 360 degrees of San Francisco -- is spectacular. That alone is worth the price of admission. But there's neat stuff to look at, too.

You Know You're an English Major When...

So sometime last night/early this morning I had this dream...

I am walking along in a crowd of people on my way to class. I am walking with a friend. We are behind a lady pushing a baby stroller. The baby is beautiful with these incredible eyes just staring and staring at me. And I say to my friend, "Don't babies have the most amazing eyes? They're like cats the way they stare at you..." But she shushes me because she doesn't want the lady to hear us.

We approach a church and we go inside, journeying down long hallways to our classroom. We are about to take an important test and we're all nervous. Then the baby crawls out of his stroller and sets off a bomb. The building explodes all around us. But strangely enough, only the building explodes-- all the people are unharmed.

At first, I walk dazedly around inspecting the damage. The church isn't completely destroyed. Some walls are still standing. But the roof is gone and I can look up into the sky. It reminds me of some of the bombed out churches I saw in Germany. Great hunks of rubble are suspended all around like a Patrick Woodroffe painting. (I was reading my Patrick Woodroffe book last night before I went to bed... I think I dreamed my way inside of one, or possibly several...)

And then I have this vision that there will be a shrine erected on this site to R2D2. I can see it so clearly, this bronze statue on top of chunks of rubble.

Then I remember my test and go back to my seat. I lift up the paper from my desk and read the question: Select two recent dreams and deconstruct them. "Well," I say to myself, "this will be easy."

Current mood: Fascinated

Current music: tori amos "iieee"